


Labyrinthine

by Wetherill



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bottom Roger, Bottom&TOP Ralph, Christianity, Churches & Cathedrals, Fight Sex, Fights, Gay, Gay Male Character, Heavy Angst, Hurt Jack, Isle of Islay, Jack Has Issues, Jack being Jack, Jack is a Little Shit, Jack-Centric, Kissing in the Rain, Love, Love Triangles, M/M, Name Changes, Post-Lord of the Flies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion, Rough Sex, Sad, Scotland, Sex, Top Jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetherill/pseuds/Wetherill
Summary: While "Lyle's" new job succeeds at keeping him in a steady, stable state of mind, his tendencies to revert to negative behavior still remain apparent. Despite the necessity for him to keep a holy demeanor of innocence as a priest, he's the same "Jack Merridew" that he was seven bustling years ago on the island. His name change and move to Scotland's Isle of Islay succeed at bandaging his past for a brief time, but with the aid of his best friend Roger, slipping up becomes more frequent. Thus, his real downward spiral begins when he makes has unexpected encounter with Ralph again and suddenly his church and prayer are futile to help him.





	1. Try Not to Recall

Dust collected in the slit where the church walls kissed yards over their heads and stuck. A young face broke the surface of a bath of winking water, and a body rose out while being straightly enveloped into a cold, sopping hug.Ribbons of water danced down the child’s face and dropped from his chin while he pursed his lips to form a shield against them. Alongside, his mother, faintly resembling a witch to the children of the nave, plastered a toothless smile onto her knobbly face. With a sharp intake of breath, beads of water shot down the child’s throat and he coughed them up. The dull nave broke into applause and prayer and they stood. Bygone wooden benches shrieked at the loss of weight and their lame cries were blanketed by joyful praise. A priest raised his arms, his clothes uncomfortably drenched, sleeves sticking to his bony limbs, and strained a smile. The child remained blank faced, lifting his sopping legs from the bath, and flicked water from his eyelashes. He squished the wet fabric of his clothing with his other hand. His mother swatted his arm from his pant leg as excess water gushed out and the size of the puddle on the floor increased. It ran and water spilled over the sides of the church platform. Children retreated their feet and some tapped their toes in it for amusement. The boy dripped renewal. His mother leaned and gripped his hand for show.

 

“Congratulations,” the priest whispered into the child’s ear, sparking a slight, insincere smile on both of their faces. He straightened himself and cleared his throat, raising his voice to reach the excited crowd, arms still raised beside him.

“With the new status within God’s family, reborn, rewritten in the book of life… again… we wish Aron and his family _yet another_ memorable and blessed day.” He struggled to sound authentic.

 

As the excitement of the crowd persisted, the priest’s smile became more sincere and spread slowly across his freckled face. He blinked solemnly and zoned out on the wall just above the heads spread out before him. The coldness of his wet clothes drowned out the rest of his senses and his mind grew tired and begged for sleep again. The smile withered and died. Grayness of the world and interior of the gutted church began to consume his peripheral vision and bled inward. He dropped his Christ-like pose and pushed a clump red hair from his tacky forehead. His eyes lost focus and he saw double. The wooden walls seemed to move and stretch and dance before him tauntingly, then he blinked and they were still. He felt cold. So cold. So cold, that memories of loss and hopelessness shaped up slowly in his mind and he couldn’t catch them quick enough. They inflated and he began to pant. His face folded upon itself into a disgusted and pained grimace.

 

_Stop it._ The priest squeezed his eyes shut and noticeably shook his head around and the memories danced out of his mind and away, where they’d stay until something reminded them to come back. As the applause died down, the priest pulled himself back into stability, motioning for the dismissal of the child and his mother.

 

“Bless you,” the woman croaked as she welled up. To the man clad in black with the white ring around his neck she seemed miles away and her voice went underwater.

 

 

—————

 

 

“The kid works his ass off. He hustles. Always.” Shaking his head, the redhead stabbed a counter with his forefinger. “And the mother, boy, that woman. She doesn’t understand. The lord will love him in spite of it all, but no. Poor kid’s been baptized five times since birth. ‘magine.” He shook his head and pushed the heels of his hands against his brows.

 

“In spite of it all,” a bartender agreed fraudulently.

 

Blue eyes shot up to meet his. The priest, now dressed in casual day clothes, elbowed the counter and downed a glass of water.“Sorry, rambling.”

 

The bartender changed the subject. “None? You sure? Not like you.” A pause.

 

“Fuck it,” the redhead muttered.

 

“Woah, watch with the language. Always listening.” The man behind the counter cocked two black eyebrows and nodded to the ceiling, turning to retrieve a drink.

 

“You’d know.”

 

“I’m learning.” A smile from the bartender. He slackened his posture in front of the taller man and slid a glass across the counter. His black hair was long enough to reach his shoulders when he slouched, but nothing more. The priest always found himself watching it spill over them when he raised his arms or sighed or anything of that nature.

 

“I says, I’m learning. Where’s my praise?”

 

The priest blinked and looked up. “Praise! Please, youdn’t survive a day in my shoes. Stick to mixing alcohol and wiping counters, whatever else you do.”

 

“Muhh.” The bartender raised two fingers into a V formation. The priest copied, but with his palm facing outward. Mutual laughter arose between them and the smaller man rubbed his eyes with a sigh.

 

“Fuck, Lyle, don’t you get… tired? You stand and you talk and talk. In front of… well, aren’t most of ‘em like,” he lowered his voice, “ _freakshows?_ ”

 

Lyle swallowed and began to speak as soon as his glass left his lips. “No- I mean, well, no. Not completely. Except for Ruth, the fucker. It’s not my ideal job, but what can I do? I din’t have to go through nothing to get it thanks to my dad, an’ I get payed enough.”

 

“More than enough.”

 

“S’the only church in town, Roger.”

 

“And it shows up clear as day in your bank account,” Roger stifled a laugh and took Lyle’s empty glass from him.

 

“Damn well does,” Lyle wiped his nose with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. A sigh. “I’ve gotta start saving for reparations on the damned thing, too. Nobody else gonna do it, and the things about to straight cave in on itself.”

 

“Could do with a skylight, though- yeah?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“What? ’S dark in there.”

 

“Needs some work, yeah- but so does my fuckin’ house. Place is a massive, massive shithole,” Lyle stabs a finger in Roger’s direction. That’s our conflict.”

 

“That’s the beauty of Islay- monstrous houses come virtually cheaper than say a thirty square-footage carpet replacement…” Roger shook his head.

 

“Tell me about it, I’ve got four bathrooms- only _two_ with a working sink. Two, Roger. An’ the one in my kitchen barely works. Shit is expensive, and with the mortgage and the church- fuckin’ insanity.”

 

Roger knew about the sinks, and didn’t bother to suggest a downgrade, he knew Lyle would shoot the idea to the ground. “Well, just be glad I give you drinks for free, then.”

 

Lyle rolled his eyes despite the smile forming on his lips. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled the dusty air of the empty bar, gawping blankly at a pink flickering lightbulb that didn’t match any of the others in the ceiling. He lowered his chin and caught Roger look away from him, blindly grabbing for a dish towel and busying himself. Leaning forward slightly, Lyle traced the shape of Roger’s profile with his eyes and looked away when his tongue ran across his lips. Lyle reverted his glance to the distant cliff that was the horizon outside of the window and bit his lip at the thought of the ocean beneath it.

 

It’d taken far longer than convenient for Lyle to warm up to the idea of living by water. After he’d changed his name and the war had subsided, he made a point to stay as far away from any beaches or oceans as long as he could help it. After throwing up at his aunt’s beach wedding merely in reaction to the sound that the waves made as they rolled in and out of the shore, he decided to ask for therapy. He’d been fifteen then, five years ago already. After the death of his grandfather, when Jack, or ‘Lyle’ was eighteen, his church had been passed down to Jack’s father, who passed it down to his own son as he thought Jack could make himself some money from work. It took a time of convincing, but Jack agreed. At nineteen, he was living alone in a small cottage and waking up at the crack of dawn to preach things that he didn’t believe in to people that he didn’t like. When the church had emptied after each draining session, he’d press his nose to his podium and cry for about twenty minutes. It was quotidian. However, the crying became comforting, because when he did it loud enough it’d muffle the resonance of _ocean_ down the block. Nobody bothered to ask why the town’s priest walked home with his hands clasped over his ears.

With time, he had upgraded to a five bedroom house that would have costed at minimum three times as much anywhere else but Islay. The loneliness was unbearable, and he would have Roger visit as much as possible. Roger wasn’t as traumatized as Lyle, and they often sparked arguments between each other over wether or not Roger was plainly in denial. After a year, he felt comfortable being home alone. Life in his house was a constant cycle of sitting in the living room, and going upstairs and down the hall to the master bedroom, whose bathroom had no running water, to sleep. It was always cold, humid, dark, _so_ fucking cold. If he had to use the restroom he’d bundle up as tight as he could and waddle downstairs with his eyes shut, his hands as his sight. Then he’d use the one off of the kitchen because it didn’t scare him as much as the empty one in one of his three guest rooms, with asbestos caked onto the mirror and lingering in the air. He kept that door shut. His adult self was afraid of the ghosts and lung disease. It was also about a 10 minute walk to the nearest neighbor’s house, and, like his location… Lyle’s heart felt cold and barren. “Just me on my cliff,” he’d tell his family.

One bedroom was located downstairs, which he kept in order for the occurrences in which Roger spent the night. He didn’t like to look at it anymore, though, after he and his friend had “slipped up” and had drunken sex in that room. However, like the island, they both silently and unanimously agreed not to speak of it, in fact they both remained so silent that Lyle had begun to question if he had dreamt it or not. The rest of the bedrooms, leaving out his own, had no carpeting and his couch bruised his ass on the daily. Lyle grew into the habit of sitting slowly and cautiously no matter where he went. His mattress was moldy and his ceiling dripped and sometimes he’d catch the droplets in his mouth and they tasted like copper. He could see the ocean out of every window on all sides of his home except for the east. Luckily his bedroom was on the east side. Yet still, he refused to sleep without a noise to block out the waves.

 

If Lyle had been trying to sleep in silence, the beast from water came, knocked on his window and said, “ ** _kill the beast, cut her throat, bash her in!”_**

 

Lyle invested in a noise machine before he had bought the house.

 

Amidst all of the chaos, Lyle discovered that he actually found great comfort in his church, and began to confide in it for guidance and reassurance. He made some friends, and began to hate some others. He treaded lightly in life and avoided sleeping with people, cursing, over drinking, and smoking for a time- yet slowly eased back into it. He presumed it’d be okay if he prayed afterwards, with being the priest- which he denied to be the old Jack Merridew pushing through to the present, bending and snapping rules and dusting off his actions with senseless excuses. His least favorite churchgoer was indubitably the asthmatic boy who always sat to the far left of the front bench, and Lyle knew why, but he didn’t want to think about why. He’d strain his tongue and the muscles of his throat whenever the boy would cough- which, obviously, wasn’t often, but it did happen. And Lyle suppressed the urge to choke him out when he’d have fits. He felt as the boy was doing it on purpose to taunt him. Of course, nobody knew about Lyle’s past besides Roger- and the two promised each other to keep their forgone violent nature as disclosed as they could. The knowledge of their parents as to what had happened was extremely minimal, for all they knew the two had simply survived with a few other boys for a bit, then gone home. Of course it hadn’t been enjoyable, but it wasn’t severely traumatic either.

 

Except, it was. And Roger and Lyle knew that. But they wouldn’t talk about it. Not even with each other anymore. But Lyle savvied that he likely thought about the incident about twice every ten minutes- despite the passage of seven hasty and _hypothetically_ distracting years.

 

_I didn’t kill Piggy, no, you did. It wasn’t my fault that his head popped open and Ralph had to watch his brains flow out and into the ocean. That was your fault._

 

Lyle smiled. “Yes, I suppose so.”

 

As if on queue, a lanky blond boy entered the bar with the jingle of a bell and a sniffle. Lyle watched Roger’s nostrils flare upon the sight and turned his head slowly, saw the boy and his hair, then turned back again and shut his eyes. The boy walked into the bathroom and Lyle tensed when he heard his footsteps dragging behind him. Roger was silent for a moment and shook his head, leaning forward and grinning slyly. The bathroom door squealed shut.

 

“He’d better buy something, swear. Do they realize we’ve a water bill?” The poor attempt to lighten the atmosphere was useless. Roger’s pinky grazed Lyle’s hand and Lyle pulled away and smiled falsely.

 

A door opened creakily, and the blonde boy was in sight again.

 

“You’ve got a broken toilet.” The boy rolled his eyes and began to leave.

 

“Gotcha,” Roger muttered, flipping the boy’s back the bird as he exited. Lyle snorted and looked at his lap. “Broken toilet, great.”

 

More silence. The buzz of the refrigerator behind the counter became unnervingly loud and, as if it couldn’t get any worse- Roger made it so.

 

“Where you think he’s at?” Roger’s voice comes out as a whisper despite him and Lyle being alone.

 

Lyle’s head snapped up. “Who- _Ralph?_ Who?”

 

“Ralph, Jack. Where you think he’s at?”

 

“It’s _Lyle. Roger, I-_ Seriously?” Roger’s dark eyes bored into Lyle’s, who stood up and left loudly. Roger sighed and buried his face in his hands.

 

—————

The stone gables of Lyle’s rundown home dripped with mucky, dense rain in the fog that came with the gradual arrival of evening. The splotchy spread of moss that had been deftly growing since the home had been vacant years ago glistened despite the lack of sunlight. A black car tore down the quarter-mile long driveway, hobbling across the rutted trail as the hissing sound became louder from the house itself. The car came to an abrupt stop atop the abysmally constructed driveway which matched the ugly, utilitarian house which was as tremendous as it was hideous. It was difficult to tell the guest’s car from Lyle’s, as they both were cheap and black and blurry in the fog, covered in condensation. A door popped open and a white umbrella followed, blooming from the side of the car as a man slipped out and a grating sob escaped from a mouth. The sound spread out quickly across the flat, vast land, and echoed against the rain. At the edge of the cliff that did its steep drop about fifty yards from the west side of Lyle’s house, the ocean was covered by the dark sheet of the weather. As the door closed, the driver wiped his nose with his sleeve and started toward the house with theatrical strides. Splinters poked through the skin of his knuckles while he knocked on the door. The paint was red and chipping and after a moment he knocked again with his fist. The thick stone walls of the house emitted no sound. The man stood on his heels and wiped his pink, wet eye. He sniffled. Then knocked again. Whipped his head over his shoulder to face Lyle’s car in the driveway, then back to the door which lacked a window on or surrounding it. He took a deep breath.

 

“We’ve got to talk about it! Oh, Jack, we’ve got to! It’s been years!” Roger sobbed at his friend’s doorstep, clutching the umbrella dramatically despite the fact that it was only barely drizzling. “Please, I’m sorry, Ja- Lyle, I am. Please, I just wanna talk to you. As your friend, please?”

 

After a long, silent moment during which the red door seemed to mock him as it remained shut, as Roger, defeated, gave up and turned to leave. Then the door swung open and Lyle rocked back and forth between his toes and his heels in the doorway. Roger gave a meek smile and took a step toward him, pushing the button of his umbrella and lifting it over his head to close it carefully. Lyle sized him up and stepped aside, silently willing his entry, almost striking Roger who remained unmoving for a moment, gazing at him, but trudged inside. The smaller man sat down at the kitchen counter on a rickety stool that wilted even under his lacking weight. He looked at the countertop until he sensed Jack in front of him, goading, taunting him to speak. Roger’s throat filled up, his eyes felt tight in their sockets, and he let go.

 

“I’m sick of us! Sick of us acting like everything’s okay when we both know that it isn’t, because I-“

 

“I haven’t been acting, Roger. _You_ have. _Y_ ou killed Piggy, and-“

 

“ _You_ , _Jack Merridew!_ You killed Simon.”

 

“We all killed Simon.”

 

“Please, Jack, just. Just listen to me. Okay? I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry. But we were kids-”

 

“We were savages.”

 

“We were _scared! Shitless_ for that matter!” His voice was a hissing whisper but his eyes were wide and Lyle could see the red veins scattered across their circumference.

 

“Don’t matter. We _killed_ people, Rog. We were kids, but so was they, and we killed them. And we was gonna kill Ralph, too. And if we did- _fuck_.” Jack’s voice began breaking and his eyes turned a shade of pink.

 

“We both know we weren’t gonna kill Ralph, not actually-”

 

“ _Bullshit_ we weren’t. You leaned on that stick like it was fucking nothing and then you turned and started carving out another. You liked it, I liked it. We fucking _liked_ it. We were going to do it, and we can’t fucking excuse that. It’s time we- _you_ open your eyes.”

 

“TWO-FACED! You are so fucking two-faced, Jack. You didn’t see me changing my fucking name because I din’t like hearing it anymore. You’re still Jack. I’m still Roger. I can accept it, why can’t you? My eyes are wide the fuck open. Thirteen year old Jack-Goddamned-Merridew is still fucking there,” Roger jabbed his finger into Jack’s chest, “and you know what? He’ll come out whenever he damn pleases because he _can_. I still see him sometimes and he smiles at me from behind your face like the fucking demon that he was, and that’s okay, because you and I both did some shit and change takes patience.”

 

A tear fell and slipped its way down Jack’s freckled cheek, uniting an array of the spots with a blurred streak in which they were highlighted atop his flushed skin.

 

“I know,” he whispered. “Fuck, I know.” His sandy eyelashes stuck together and his pupils droned up behind them to combat the fall of any more tears.

 

Roger blinked sympathetically, licked his lips, looked up- down, then spoke. “We fucked up. But we can’t keep pushing the blame onto each other just cause there isn’t nobody else to blame- because _we_ fucked up, Jack. We were the worst of the bunch and we both know it. But then, we were scared, we were thirteen- stupid! And how! But people change, Jack, and we’re not going to revert back to how we was because… because we’re okay now. Nothing’s gonna hurt us anymore. And I’d bet that everyone else, even Ralph, has long gotten over it by now.” He delicately placed a warm hand over Jack’s, who drew his back immediately and cupped it over his quivering mouth, silently refusing eye contact. Roger’s thumbs danced to the silence and he’d begun to ponder if he’d said something wrong.

 

“ _Okay?_ ” Roger’s voice was hushed and comforting, it sent gentle chills up Jack’s spine and his neck felt fuzzy.

 

“Okay, okay. Yes,” Jack whispered back, taking one of Roger’s busy hands in his own. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to you and everyone else. And God. God. God, if only I could see them one last time. Just to know if they’re okay, you know? Damn,” he huffed.

 

“Fuck yeah we’re sorry,” Roger breathed through weak sputters of laughter, squeezing Jack’s hand to remind him that he had it. “Like I says, people change, and you- Jack, you’re so… different. You really, truly are. Hell, you inspire me on the daily.” Jack slipped his hand away for the thousandth time and pocketed it, shifting his shoulders straight and taking a few steps back.

 

“You, too,” he mumbled, waxing rigid upon the realization that the guest bedroom door gaped mockingly open across the kitchen, with an unmade bed inside. Roger looked and looked away. Jack distracted him. “Maybe we should try.”

 

“Try?” Jack’s voice pulled Roger out of his trance.

 

“To find them, we-“

 

“No, Jack, you’ll only make it worse. Believe me, if we turned out fine, why wouldn’t they’ve?”

 

“I guess you’re right,” Jack smiled, “although I still worry about that Percival sometimes.”

 

Roger folded his hands in front of him and smirked. “The Vicarage, Harcourt St. Anthony, Hants…”

 

“Telephone, telephone… You remember,” Jack chimed in with a weak yet sincere smile, and Roger stood up, striding around the counter to place his head, with hair soggy from the drizzle, against Jack’s shoulder and took a deep breath into his shirt which he found smelled of mud and cigarettes and somebody else. Somebody else. Jack didn’t move, but accepted the action.

 

Roger straightened up and smiled at him. “S’an adult now, he’ll manage.”

 

“A teenager,” Jack argued.

 

“Don’t worry about it, busy being rebellious.” Roger tapped a stiff finger on his forehead and Jack’s countenance transitioned into a liable grin, and Roger gazed through it and saw brown and painted children crying and knew that this was going to take a while.

 


	2. Feel Too Much

“I’m gonna…”

“Hm?”

“M’gonna throw up on your rug.”

“I fucking dare you.”

“Ohh, ohh, the color would look nicer if I just threw up all over it.” A whiskey bottle oscillated in Roger’s hand, his fourth bottle, as he unstably bowed at Jack and lifted his knee to his chest. He eyed the other empty bottles on the table, which he pondered the consequences of with a small drop of his stomach- if he were to get caught. “Taking” from work had become a habit of his, and usually went unscathed, yet his boss had been zoning in on him as of recent, which was fair, as Roger knew he’d been making his job a bit too homey for even his boss to find comforting. 

He sat parallel to Jack in the living room now, the one with brown water damage stains resting in the creases where the ceiling and walls came together. Roger thought one of them resembled a sheep, and he always fantasized about tracing it with a marker to authenticate it, but never pointed it out to Jack as he was defensive about his deeply flawed home. And Jack’s home had enough unexplainable stains smothered onto its walls, whether they’d been from him or any of the plentiful past generations that had resided in the home. However, due to the house’s size, none of those said parties were likely to have consisted of a single individual, as Jack was.

Roger focused on the puny, faded yellow rug which was only long enough for the two front legs of each couch to rest on, and footprints remained in sunken visibility when tread upon at first but rose back into shape slowly, foamily. Their exchange of tears and hugs had transitioned into jokes and alcohol, all the while Jack felt guilty due to the lingering feeling that he was indirectly celebrating the finalized agreement to disregard the island. The thoughts beckoned round him but weren’t energized or powerful enough to dive in through his mind. With these thoughts came tears, and Jack’s ducts felt empty and irritated. He spared himself the exhaust of crying, and drowned his senses in alcohol. _Dung God. Beelzebub. You are dirty!_

Jack swatted his ideas away motionlessly and drank. He wouldn’t have dreamt of getting so intoxicated just months prior, in fact he would have cuttingly refused to even consider it- but it wasn’t a seldom behavior of his anymore. Especially not with Roger around dangling the concept of alcoholism over his head whenever he felt like having some respite from whatever might be inconveniencing him. Abuse was easy for Roger, his work nearly promoted it in discrete ways that brought fast money, and he was good at promoting it, but he and Jack’s jobs were worlds apart. 

Roger’s chest tightened at the sound of Jack’s abrupt, drunken laughter and his eyes lurched their tired selves upward to reach the tall man’s face in slow motion. Jack had lit a cigarette and was taking a long drag, squinting, and not exactly blowing the smoke, just letting it waft gradually from his parted lips. The smoke rose to the ceiling and Roger tried not to make his deep, pleasureful inhalation of the fumes too obvious. He’d quit long ago, yet thrived off of Jack’s secondhand smoke whenever he’d light up around him. Roger’d bet that tar would be caked into his nappy hair within the next hour. 

Jack’s aura screamed ‘filth.’

“Think so?” Jack spoke through his smoke, which jolted outward, away from his airy words. Roger blinked hard, almost gagged, and bit his grinning lip. He’d slipped right into the old habit of ‘Jack’ rather than ‘Lyle’ in impressive time. 

“Hmmm,” he regurgitated and placed a fist over his mouth, withheld, smiled, then laughed hoarsely. “Fuck, wanna find out? What color you reckon whiskey puke’ll come out as? What’d I eat today?”

“Okay, ooh, okay- you’re done.” Jack talked through laughter, straining over the coffee table to take Roger’s bottle from him, cigarette pressed between his lips. Like a child, Roger pulled away, pressing the bottle to his clammy, sour mouth and tilting his chin back, hurrying to down the rest of the drink while swatting his friend back. Jack made a choked sound and swung his hand over Roger’s head, who smiled against the bottle as it was torn from his mouth. Roger broke into a fit of coughing and sniggering, waving Jack’s smoke from his face. 

“I said you’re finished!” Jack leaned back- cautiously, onto his couch. Beads of whiskey and spit fell to the table and the slamming of a fist onto the old metal shook them about. Roger was trying to suppress his laughter to combat vomiting. He sighed, loudly cleared his throat, and looked at Jack, who dropped his smoldered cigarette into his own bottle with a hiss. Jack wiped the grin from his face. They basked in the sudden silence, and the drizzle, which had grown into downpour resounded over their heads, discreetly catching them off guard. Jack watched the nostrils of Roger’s softly defined grecian nose flare, which they seemingly did upon shock, which was heightened in his state like all other emotions. 

“‘Ssuhh… raining,” Roger mumbled to the ceiling. 

“Sss- _What?_ ” Jack broke into a twinge of convulsions, which fizzed Roger into hysterics, this time releasing a high pitched giggle and dropping his intoxicatedly bobbing head to his thighs, holding onto the table for support. 

“Raining!” Roger breathed roughly. 

“You’re real off, worse than I’ve seen you in ages.” Jack stood, shaking his head amidst the amusing yet eerie atmosphere, and walked to dispose of the bottles. The original architecture of the kitchen clashed horrendously with the remodeling that had occurred while the parties had occupied the house, all with their own distinct tastes, yet not devoted enough to distribute their flavors throughout the entirety of the home. Wallpaper on one side- but not the other, was dotted with sunflowers and appeared to be from the seventies or eighties, and dehydrated strips hung loosely in places, drooping and peeling. His sink and stove were a fern green and rust clumped around small crevices that Jack couldn’t be bothered to notice, let alone wash. The sink, when the faucet handle was turned all the way around, only conferred a lousy, thin and gentle stream of water. Jack drank from it, despite that when he filled a glass it would be foggy and stain his tongue a blurry white. 

With an absentminded toss of the bottles into the garbage, which shattered, Jack removed a chipped mug from a cupboard and began to fill it with the white flurried water for Roger. The lame stream of water came out slowly, and Jack tapped his foot against the yellow tiled floor. 

“Jack?” Roger’s voice was muffled against his legs.

“Uh.”

“Bring me a bowl? I can’t move.” 

Jack smiled. “Yes, dear. I’ll make your bed, too,” Jack muttered sarcastically before Roger spilled onto his rug. Beige. Winner. 

 

— — — 

“Jack.”

In the night, Jack’s bedroom door hung lazily open, as he’d blacked out face first into his bed and struggled to recollect anything upon opening his eyes slightly and squinting against the dark, as if it’d tell him how to remember. He groaned and closed them again as the pang of headache hit him in a fierce, expectable wave, drawing his legs up to his stomach. 

The stair second to the top squeaked loudly as it always did, and Roger’s patterned, heavy footsteps became closer. Jack pretended to be asleep, practicing cycling his breaths and not holding his eyelids shut too obviously tight. The ball of Roger’s foot swiped a nail that poked mercilessly from the old carpeting and he cursed under his breath, hopping slightly and trying to inspect his wound in the dark. Jack heard his swear and knew his situation immediately, he didn’t even have to think to dodge the nail anymore.  
Roger stomped his foot and continued down the hall, past all of the vacant bedrooms which all had their own dusty, thick with mess smells. He passed the one with the door shut, mindlessly grazing his fingers against it, almost stopping- and realized Jack’s door was open. He squinted at the hallway to make out small shapes that manifested within sight. The bed sat right across from the doorway, the footboard facing Roger in a textbook, perfect sort of way that was usually only captured properly in cinematography or illustrations. Roger subconsciously tried to align his path with the middle of it. 

_“Jack!”_

Jack pulled a pillow over his head. He sensed Roger’s presence in the room and his negative energy- Roger knew he was awake, and Jack knew that. They knew each other too well.

“What..?” Jack emitted a drowned out groan. 

“You’re delusional. You’ve done it now.”

“You’re hungover- what’d you, throw up? It’s…” Jack craned his neck and squinted into the darkness once more, this time the dim, blue tinted moonlight from his window illuminated his alarm clock ever so slightly. “Rog, it’s four-fuckin’ fifteen. I’ve got work in-”

“You fucki- what? Come fucking see this, now. Come, I always been tellin’ ya you ought to fuckin’ fix your place up, at least a little, even the smallest thing-“ Roger’s voice got smaller as he reversed back down the hall toward the staircase.

“Calm yourself, what the fuck happened?” His voice was thick from sleep, his lips were pressed bright red and he couldn’t quite catch anything with his bothered eyes yet. He stood, heard Roger descend the stairs and felt along the wall for the doorframe. Squeezing it tightly before reaching for the light switch, he recoiled with mercy upon his adjusting vision. His tongue felt sticky in his mouth and when he separated it with a click from the insides of his cheeks could still taste the bitter alcohol. He wanted to brush his teeth. 

“Fucking _delusional!_ ” Roger was downstairs now.

Jack’s unhinged pace quickened, his socked feet slipped quietly down the stairs, and Roger was pointing into a room with the light on. “His” bedroom. Jack peered inside.

Curtains of fiberglass and plaster hung from what was once a compact ceiling, spilling dust and chunks over Roger’s bed, chalky powder caked onto the now grey sheets. It took Jack a moment to process the sight, but in his state of exhaust could not quite savvy the cause. The room smelled soggy and Jack could feel a burning sensation in his sinuses when he inhaled, thus trained his exhales to sharpen and lengthen while he digested the sight. Substances had made themselves at home in every crease and fold of the covers, but dusted the pillows with a bit more lenience. Jack looked to Roger and noticed that he, too, was covered in grey. Jack furrowed his brows. He thought that Roger was glaring at him, but under the dust he couldn’t have been sure. 

“How’d- huh?”

“You tell me, Jack. I’m pissed because I told you so, and I care, Jack, cause you’re living like a pig in shit. When was the last time you went in the room above this one?” The boy with soiled, coarse hair nodded to the ceiling and small clouds formed and faded with his movement.

Jack thought of the ‘ghost’ bedroom and bluffed. “Like, last week?” Maybe last year. All he knew was that the other side of the door probably still had an old bug’s nest stuck to it. 

“ _Bullshit_ , last week. You’d have fallen right through the goddamned floor. I tried to tell you it’s not normal to have your ceiling turn _brown._ You couldn’t even take care’a that old cot of yours, what made you think five whole bedrooms was a good fucking idea? Five, Jack! There’s only one of you! You can’t even be bothered to make sure that the damned ceiling doesn’t collapse over my head while I’m sleeping? You’re filthy! God, Jack, I- move. I’m gonna be sick. Which toilet even works, again?” Roger slid past Jack and dramatically wiped his forehead. Jack stood up to his eyes in shame, looking at his feet rather than the accident. 

“I’ve some tools in the-“

“ _Tools!_ You’d need a carpenter. It’s time you get it together, jack. I’ll see about having my father come take a look and get you off your ass.” Roger’s father had been an industrial production manager, a carpenter beforehand- but had retired just one year prior. Jack huffed.

“I can manage on my—“

“You! Talk! You’s all bark and no bite. I’m gonna head home- oh. Give me a second.” Roger ducked into the bathroom and the door shut behind him. Jack listened to his sick. 

His brain betrayed him again as he waited for whatever might come next- The money. Island Merridew and pigs were equivalent to present Jack and his salary. He felt obligated to have a lot of money, and it came before all other things. He couldn’t seem to bite his tongue when it came to talking about it, and his sizeable house was something that he wanted to wear across his forehead indiscreetly. He had the balls to buy a semi-mansion, but not a new paint job for his bedroom. One splurge was plenty. However there was one thing that drew the line between the similarities of both obsessions- He wasn’t as willing to give any of it away, not even for his own benefit. He was selfish, and he’d been for a long time, but now the characteristic took up a contrasting form. He was completely unwilling to share his triumph with anyone around him, and although he could easily afford a decent renovation and cleanup, he refused. He was sparing while buying himself food and took the shortest of showers. Upon catching himself dampening cloths and hand washing plates rather than using his dishwasher, he became aware of himself. That’d been months before, yet still Jack couldn’t accept his own issues.

He tensed when he heard the toilet flush. 

“I can’t, Rog.”

Roger coughed wetly from behind the door and spat. “Can’t what?”

“Pay for this.”

“But you _can!_ ” Roger’s tone took an unnervingly aggressive turn. The door swung open and Roger presented himself boldly, despite having just embarrassingly vomited. “Recognize your problems and their source. You’re a fucking hoarder.” The word came out as a dagger that struck Jack’s ego. 

Jack rolled his eyes as Roger thoughtlessly dusted his hair off over the no longer clean floor. “M’not. Just cautious.”

“Cautious my cock, your fucking ceiling just exploded.” Jack smiled slightly, Roger did not. “I’ve got to get out of here and get upon-“

“Pause, you’re still coming down. I can’t even see straight, and didn’t have half as much as you. No way in hell you’re driving-“

“Where’s you expecting me to sleep, then?” Presently Roger was biting a rubber band from his wrist and fixing his hair back. “And clean myself? Tell me you have a shower that works.”

“I’ve got a goddamned shower.”

Roger’s response was a foreignly dampened finger in the air aiming toward Jack. “Tomorrow. I come up with my father. You haven’t any obligation to pay us, but after, I better see your bank balance dropping. For you and your church thing.” The finger was then twisting the rubber band around matted hair and Roger wiped his scalp dust on his pants. “Where’s that shower, then?”

“Behind you,” Jack muttered complacently.

“This one?” Roger retracted his hands from his head and stubborn strands that sprouted from his lower neck wriggled their way to freedom from his ponytail. “Oh. I’ll need clothes.” The door closed again without a response. After a moment pipes dwindled and groaned within the walls before employing their pathetic strength into producing spurts of cold water into the tub. 

Once the flow of the water steadied, Roger tested it with an arm, bleached patchy blue-white under the florescent lighting of the bathroom. With a papery chin to his chest, he swayed and rocked his neck mindlessly to watch chunks of plaster roll from his mop and down his stomach as small boulders. Roger blinked. One hit the floor and he pressed on it with his toe, guiltily heaving himself into the tub. His forehead could hit the shower head if he stood on his toes and he rubbed shapes into his dusty skin before wiping the mess off. He watched the grey whirl through the drain and tried to bring himself to sympathize with Jack while fidgeting with his wet eyebrows. But all he could acquire a way to feel was jealous. The pale green wall’s tiles were missing pieces and Roger moved his hand to blindly pick at them and suck on his knuckle. Jack had always had things come easily to him, and Roger had dwindled into a figment of his shadow over time- a sidekick. Always completing tasks for him and feeling a fluttery sense of pride whenever done. Although irresponsible, Roger’d fantasize about spending the copious money to provide himself the unnecessary pleasures that had no other purpose than to make him feel superior to _anything._ On the other side of this unwise spectrum stood Jack, and Roger couldn’t figure out which use of the money was worse. Saving was ideal, but letting your own house fill with disease shouldn’t fit into that category. 

Roger scrubbed at his scalp with his fingertips. He flexed his toes breathed hard into his palms, tossed his head back, and turned the water warmer. With a click, a lump of clothes slid through a gap in the door, but Roger was too busy in his thoughts to notice. 

Then there were Jack’s troubles- he’d cried. Crying- especially for Jack, was a taboo that grabbed his masculinity by the throat in a swift, usually unavoidable threat that thawed his confidence. Since the cyclic ‘Podium Time’ episodes, Jack hadn’t cried since his last, the final one at the end of the slow decline of strength he’d apply to them.  
Until last night, that was. The sudden storm of emotions encircling him and Roger were arriving too abruptly to feel comfortable about, like some sort of traumatic relapse. 

When Roger left the bathroom, Jack was gone.

When Jack left for work the next morning, Roger was gone.

When he came home, Roger was back.

A recognizable white van sat in the driveway, doors open despite the wet air, and Roger’s lank shifted on one side. His face became visible with the slam of Jack’s door, and his lips pursed and cheeks poked out at the sides.

“Nice uniform.”

“You’re looking quite sharp yourself.” It was at this point that Jack realized that Roger had yet to see him in his work clothes. Roger didn’t attend any sort of worship center despite his Bible-Thumper of a mother, whose basement still housed him. Roger had maintained the sense of realism that Jack was too afraid to revert back into. His father lived separately, Jack didn’t know why.

Clad in a cheap tool belt and a scummy white shirt, Roger plucked at his pants, examining, and grinned. It was seldom he worked with his father- especially after his retirement, the occurrence only coming into play for family friends- like Jack. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Cleanup’s done already,” Roger murmured, burying his chin in a respiratory mask that had been pulled down underneath his jaw. Jack zoned in on it and the familiar shame rushed to his cheeks. “By the way, you are fucking nasty, and my lungs almost imploded.” Eye contact. 

“There’s ghosts in there,” Jack said, half-jokingly, a raw attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

Roger shrugged. “You’re a priest, hex it or something.”

“Not how it works,” Jack grunted. “Where’s he?”

“Still trying to figure out how the hell to go about this,” Roger was looking at stiff gloves and working them onto his hands, “but I’d assume he’s almost got it by now.”

“I could have done on my own-“

“With what, the help of Jesus?” Roger squinted and shook his head at his hands, not looking back up at the scowling Jack before he turned and closed a set of long doors. Wordlessly, he trudged into the house, leaving Jack behind. 

Once Jack had made his way upstairs he shyly greeted Roger’s father, discussed his profession, excused himself, and proceeded into his bedroom. He had to apply more strength than necessary to close his door, lifting the knob against his hip and pushing until it properly clicked. He’d transferred a clothing line to his room rather than his indistinct yard, as the humidity did no good at drying of his small amount of clothes. It was set up to the window where Jack had always found himself accidentally reminiscing.  


The vast fields that encircled his house took their sudden drop into the blurred sea and offered no natural accessories for admiration. Weeds swayed with the damp breeze and their image was brushed to borderline invisibility by dew and gentle, rhythmic movements. If the ocean had decided to sit stiller than usual on a given day, Jack would open and lean out of this window, his breathing noisier than the entirety of the landscape. He couldn’t know how to feel when he did this, some sort of nervous anticipation for something to happen that made him feel slightly hopeful, yet scared. This mixture of feeling would force his hands upward to shut the window and then he’d feel very alone. Post-Island Jack felt too much, then his mind blanked with the passage of about two years and he was numb. The mysterious vastness would bring back the island, but the emptiness would nix it and offer a new beginning. This is where Jack became unsure of whether or not he was satisfied with his current lifestyle. Part of him enjoyed the isolation, but another part wanted to move into the tightest city in the world. 

Jack ripped a stiffened shirt from the line and emotionally struggled into it, hurrying to meet Roger in the hallway. Roger faced perpendicular to him, muttering something inaudible to his father with a meek smile. Roger’s father ruffled his son’s hair and went downstairs and Jack missed his parents back in England. They were fine, but he’d still have to visit soon.

“Look,” Roger said, hushed, turning into the floor deprived bedroom. Jack blinked as Roger walked over the large gap into the attached bathroom, across a thick plank of wood that had been placed to act as a bridge. Jack hesitated. “It’s safe.” His voice was sweet. 

Jack blinked and crossed carefully into the bathroom, immediately taken aback by his visible reflection. It was clean. Roger folded his gloved hands into his lap and watched Jack expectantly with an arrogant countenance. 

_“Like, last week,”_ Roger mimicked, lifting his chin and closing his eyes halfway. Jack rolled his eyes and grinned, placing a firm hand on Roger’s shoulder.

“I fucking owe you.”

“This is just the beginning,” Roger tossed a rag which was tucked into his belt to the floor. “You and I, gonna fix this place, you need it.”

“You need to focus on yourself.” Jack felt the newly derived sense of feeling. Roger emitted a small laugh that made Jack want to pass out. Feeling this grateful to have someone was foreign to him, something he hadn’t experienced since he’d first moved away from his parents two years prior. It was almost embarrassing. 

“I haven’t got a place to focus on, still with my mother,” he half-whispered. Jack wanted to tell Roger to move in with him, but that required effort. Although Jack would also feel less alone, he still questioned whether or not the commitment was worthwhile. Besides, he’d worked hard to buy his house and didn’t want to share his success with anybody. He bit his tongue. “I was thinking we’d start painting-“

“Roger, I’ve got it. I can fix some stuff up, honest. I’ll work on it.” Roger was quiet for a moment.

“Doesn’t mean I ain’t helping.” A grin crept across his face. “You’re buying the shit, though. And you’re gonna thank me when you actually don’t feel dead in your own home anymore.” Jack smiled and pinched Roger’s nose, who scoffed and slapped his hand away.

“Thanks again, Rog. How long did you say this’ll take you?”

“I didn’t,” Roger joked. “A week or two, tops. Then we move on.” 

“ _Bless_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me some comments Ladies... :)


	3. But He'd Never

Roger betrayed himself, too. Giving in too easily to Jack, as always- subtracting his manipulation that once was. This was the more blatant thing that stuck with him like a rash, but flooded him with sort of ecstasy that he could not amass elsewhere. Doing as Jack wanted sent him to plighted euphoria that he wanted to bask within for an eternity, a gut-wrenching parallel to claying his face and tossing rocks at unsuspecting boys in a wary attempt to impress his idol. Subsequently Roger was wanting to paint Jack’s walls, cracked and dried over time just as his youthful dirty skin had once been- and trying to touch him. Hands lingering on and over Jack’s back, shoulders, arms, just when talking. In victory, sending him a blunt warning and slipping into his arms with a running start, which Jack would brook with lazed enthusiasm, insides of his elbows tucked around Roger’s feeble waist. Roger hadn’t anyone to look up to, he and Jack had loitered together with some sort of invisibly stringed bond even beyond the exasperating and fleeting days spent stranded in agony. He never wanted to be without him, in a protective manner that’d also have him gushing with one-sided carnal tension which even the dark boy himself remained oblivious to. More a gruesome obsession as opposed to a preservative friendship or mere lust, Roger wanted Jack to shackle him into some fashion of thraldom and douse him in praise. Yet he was stern, knowing what Jack needed, and making sure he would give it to himself. Some bleak femininity that he’d be repentant to present to anyone else.

Making himself Jack’s bitch wasn’t quite on purpose, but he didn’t mind.

 

Here he was spreading spackle on Jack’s bedroom wall. Here he was thinking about whether or not he should part his lips or sigh tranquilly to gain himself a more appealing demeanor. There Jack was, flicking dried paint from under his nails and picking his teeth.

And Roger couldn’t get enough of him.

 

For the first moments within weeks, clean strips of yellow sunlight slinked from beyond the clouds and lay themselves softly across the carpet and walls and flickered. Roger liked this because it turned Jack’s eyelashes gold and translucent while they partially secreted his opaque and icy eyes, his own a flashy, boring grey. This comparison was, in a sense, metaphorical to the planes that Roger mentally illustrated the two to be on, having Jack as superior and strangely, lustfully godlike.

Plumbing had quickly drained Jack’ pockets and he felt reluctant to move on with the renovations, insisting that he was fine now that water was distributed to each bathroom. His ghost room was now another empty room with a shiny new floor. Roger, too, felt stumped, obligated to take some of the payments upon himself. He was lugging cans of paint from his car the next day, with his casual urge to honor slimming their weight. The two had unskillfully plucked and scratched bleached, patterned paper from the walls and set bags full of scraps outside on the back porch. Roger had granted Jack some leisure with his home, but the deal was that Jack would turn his priorities toward his church immediately.

 

“What is all of this?” Jack was looking at Roger now and his golden face stood unblinking. This filled Roger’s throat and choked him.

 

“Uh..?”

 

“This- everything, us, just everything. What’s with this whole ‘new chapter’ attitude? Not that it’s bad, I just.”

 

Roger placed his putty knife to the floor gently and wiped his hands on his stained pants. “I think that everything with us… is like grief. Slow, gradual grief.”

 

“That means?”

 

“Seven stages,” Roger smiled weakly.

 

“Five? Thought there was…”

 

“ _Seven._ First shock, denial, anger… that was ‘round when we got rescued, started secondary two. Kinda mixed together for a while… but I think shock was most apparent.” Roger scratched his nose and stubbornly broke eye contact. “Bargaining, then depression, I think that started when we moved out here, trying to find a way to distract ourselves, maybe? Gently forgetting, whole ‘each day is same as the last’ thing. We were a lot sadder a year ago than we is now, I think.”

 

“ _You_ moved here cause I had to and your mother wanted to-“

 

“You shut up. Anyways- we’ve reached the acceptance stage, now. We’re ready to move on, swallow what happened, start up a new part together.” Roger tensed upon ‘together.’ Silence lingered between the two for a moment.

 

“…Rog?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“That was six.”

 

“Suck a cock.” Roger’s hair pooled into the delicate curves that sank above his clavicle as he suppressed a grin and Jack watched them, steeping ditches of purity and opportunity. Roger sank to his knees and noisily took his knife from the floor, scrambling on his unsteady feet to jut stabbing motions at Jack’s calves. Jack hopped in place and scurried out of the door quickly, sending Roger an ashamed and longing gut of cluelessness and disappointment.

 

“Got to make this room yellow!” Jack’s voice was fading beneath the clamor of feet down stairs. Roger stood and smiled with parted teeth.

 

“What for?” Roger called out, receiving a reply of the front door squealing open and shutting against Jack’s rear as he stooped to lift a can from the slab of stone that acted as his doormat. With a brief glance into ‘Roger’s’ bedroom, which sat empty of anything other than the same old bed frame, Jack went back upstairs and caught Roger’s glance from across the prolonged hall.

 

“For happiness.”

 

“Oh, you’re a damned sap!” Roger groaned and threw his head back. Jack bit his tongue which slipped between his lips, smiling smugly and shaking his head.

 

“I want it yellow. My house.”

 

“That’ll clash.”

 

“Okay? Whatever, Charles Barry.”

 

“As if _you know_ anything about design, you live here.”

 

“You live with your mum-“

 

“ _Alright_ already!” Roger huffed while Jack went to work on the lid with a screwdriver. Roger watched him through half opened eyelids and felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

 

—————

 

“Red.”

 

“Wha..?”

 

“I’ll paint it red.”

 

“Like fuck, you will. Focus, enough with colors.” Roger had scrawled an erroneous attempt of replicating a church onto a piece of paper and was stabbing at it with a pencil. They sat huddled together at Jack’s kitchen counter.“Maybe I’ll get some plants for out front-“

 

“Girly.” Jack didn’t bat an eyelid. Roger pressed the point of his pencil into Jack’s arm, who cried out a pained objection and swatted his laughing friend’s hand away. Roger scratched a messy circle around the roof.

 

“Here’s your biggest splurge. I’d say new shingles, cause it’s not sinking.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Nope, so don’t think about that yet. New shingles.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You want my help, or don’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Jack murmured, shifting his chin in the palm of his hand and leaning in obediently towards the paper. Roger bit the inside of his lip. “How much is those?”

 

“Depends. What’s the square footage on her again?”

 

“Um.”

 

“Didn’t expect you to know,” Roger huffed, clamping a hand onto Jack’s shoulder and slipping from his stool. He sauntered to Jack’s sink and grazed his fingers over the clunky filter that had been fastened to the spout nights before. When he turned one handle all the way around, the same weak trickle of water slipped from the opening and into Roger’s now cupped hands. It was clearer now. Roger shook his hands off and turned back around, planting his tailbone against the rim and blinking at Jack, who sat tracing lines around the drawing with his fingernail.

 

“I think I’ll ask the children what I ought to do, they see things from a more youthful perspective.” Roger stared at his lips while he spoke delicately.

 

“A stupider one, too.'

 

“True.” 

 

Roger’s eyes stayed focused on the same spot. Jack’s lips didn’t close fully, and he blinked slowly. He had a messed nest of unwashed hair atop his head and was enveloped in an old blanket, frayed at the ends, and was fingering a hole in the loose knitting. This was the boy that would wake up early and put on a dark uniform that signified a holy state of authority, shawled and fastened at the base of the neck with a golden cross pendant which he loved, which resembled the one he’d lost amongst the sorrowful waves years ago and wept for. The tall, lanky and just as fiery man that intimidated counters full of the intoxicated when he arrived to visit Roger at work late on Saturday nights. The man that once had holes littered across his walls, which Roger had just concealed, the holes of split drywall that’d be punctured by aggravated fists right before his eyes which wouldn’t blink. This scary, mess of a man, sitting child-like at the counter of his own pricey home, mouthing useless ideas to himself and yawing uglily.

 

But what was there to do? Jack hadn’t exhibited any interest towards his own sex before, and Roger still hadn’t accepted the realistic denotation of his feelings. He knew Jack had been sleeping around, but he had subconsciously assumed it’d been with women. Roger almost took into account his religion, but discerned how far Jack’d already strayed from the principles of such already. Jack and sex were two concepts that shouldn’t have subsisted within the same thought under a majority of circumstances, considering the boy’s relationship, but sometimes they’d slip and find each other in Roger’s mind when he wasn’t conscious enough to control it. Especially after their fateful night spent moaning together under sheets soaked with alcohol. Jack didn’t think about that anymore and saw it as a casual mistake. ‘Happens,’ he’d said. Roger didn’t like hearing that but he’d agreed.

 

Thoughts interrupted by a discomforting change in atmosphere, Roger realized that Jack was staring back at him confusedly.

 

“Sorry, just thinking.”

 

“Come up with anything good?” Jack bit his fingernail and looked back down at the drawing as if it’d do him any good. Roger hoisted himself from the sink and glanced at the clock, the ponderously budding darkness above and beyond the horizon, and back at Jack. As a response to the continuous silence, Jack looked back up with a furrowed brow. Roger inhaled.

 

“Yes, I think you should ask the kids,” he smiled.

 

“Goddamned sap.”

 

“Shingles, whore!”

 

“I’m asking the kids.”

 

———

 

Jack slipped silently from his car and rummaged in his pocket for his keys. With a quick slamming of the door that boomed across the familiarly foggy and barren road, he exhaled sharply and started toward the kirk door. The key for this door made itself very clear-cut, a key that’d existed for beyond one hundred years, long thin and rusty with a simple and straightforward shape. His church sat, a nearly featureless grey box, at the tip of the far end of town’s final road. While the specifically faithful churchgoers would attend each open day, the less inclined would mostly slip in on Sundays, when Jack would sing upon his choir consisting mostly of children.

 

He glanced over his shoulder and peered down the street, his vision limited by the especially thick fog of the early morning that made his skin feel tacky. The few shops that lined it had all yet to open, until a grey car came rumbling steadily from the cloud and pulled over slowly. A lanky blonde woman slipped out, concealed by a brown coat and wider around the hips, glancing over her shoulder at Jack’s distant, half-cloaked figure as she closed the door.

 

“Dull morning, _brother_ ,” she called out sarcastically, the waves of her voice scrambling toward the excessive amounts of empty space surrounding them that seemed to grow wider when Jack locked eyes with her and grinned charmingly.

 

“Better now,” he almost shouted, receiving a muffled laugh in response.

 

“Go do your preaching!”

 

“When’re you going to visit me then, huh? Gets lonely in there.”

 

“That’s the same shit you said about your bedroom.”

 

“And it worked.”

 

“I’ll see you later, Lyle,” the woman called, turning towards a shop with her own keys.

 

“ _Real_ later!” A smile that was barely visible, and she was inside. Jack turned back toward the door.

 

Once inside, he pressed his back against a wall and gazed up toward the ceiling which- and Roger was right- definitely wasn’t sinking, despite the face that Jack’d sworn it was just a week earlier. Roger had Jack notice a lot of things that he couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge on his own, like a sweet guardian angel that’d occasionally call him a dumbass if he didn’t ‘use his brain.’ Jack smiled in spite of himself, his eyes dropping to the small withered podium set front and center of the large room. He thought about what his friend had said, and an endearing warmth settled inside of him as he compared his past self to his current self. The bittersweetness made him roll his eyes, and he could almost see the naïve boy there, lifting his head with sopping cheeks, a bruised nose, sticky eyelashes that he’d dry off with the palms of his shaking hands with hoarse breaths before composing himself enough to go home. ‘I miss my father, oh, God!’

 

“Miss my father,” he laughed lowly to himself, shaking his head. That hadn’t remained true for long, not once Jack had gotten a true taste of what it meant to truly be on one’s own, being able to mock Roger for still living with his mother, blowing cigarette smoke at his bathroom mirror, lounging around in his underwear and gargling whiskey in his kitchen without reason. Loud sex, borderline screaming with laughter with Roger, shouting slurs as loud as he possibly could when stress became too apparent.

 

And Roger had prospered just the same. While still a figment of Jack’s widely-cast shadow, always lingering behind and grasping a sense of protection from him, he’d polished his morals and his intelligence had surpassed Jack’s by a long shot. He didn’t sing any longer, refused to visit Jack at church, made barely enough to buy himself food for a full week, but his priorities were straight and he had a much better chance at furthering his success than Jack had. He deserved it far more than Jack, too, just happened to lack a wealthy father to pass work and riches onto him. His hygiene was proper, he respected his elders and quit his youthfully derived smoking habit at seventeen, still refused Jack’s heavy insists to light up with him- one of the only things he wouldn’t do even to impress the redhead. He was a thin and gangling boy, swollen around the joints and littered with tendons that would become extremely defined when bent or stretched the correct way. He was like a skeleton, all pale with darker features and a steeply angled face, dimples that were merely slits when he’d show his gummy smile and gapped front teeth. Not unattractive enough to becandidly ugly, but feeble and almost laughably delicate in ways that made it nearly impossible for half of the people he met to look at him and think anything more than _boy_. He’d failed to age and develop as strongly and glamorously as Jack had, who stood well above six foot and grew some serious muscle, which still wasn’t ideal as his biceps protruded almost unflatteringly beyond his once nimble arms. Jack was but muscle upon bones, with little fat to satisfy them. Roger was… bones.

 

Jack lurched upwards and dragged his feet noisily to the front of the room, deciding whether or not he should light candles for today’s ceremony. He’d about thirty minutes before families would begin to show, and he was dreading talking to the nave’s children about redesigning, swearing to himself that he’d absolutely start saving his money as if it was the most sacred thing in the word as soon as he got Roger off of his back.

 

The next half hour was spent stepping around the nave, admiring cracks, dust, split wood, and bugs that decorated it better than the weak stained glass mural on the west side that faced the water down the block. Jack enjoyed this and took pride in it more than anything else about the building because it turned sunsets blue, green and yellow and was always a gentle comfort amidst his ‘podium cries.” At first, that was, as then the beauty would remind him of the sanctuary that was his father back at home and then he’d groan and cry again. Once the first family arrived, Jack had conversed with them for a time before the usual Sunday’s crowd expanded and he took his place up front.

 

—————

 

“I want a church pet,” said James.

 

“A goat,” Winnie added.

 

“Goats are utterly nasty,” Norman chimed in.

 

Jack watched the arguing children before him with insincere happiness, half closed eyes and a sharp chin pressed into his palm. He leaned on his podium, the church’s youth swarmed around him trying to voice their ideas louder than the other. Their arguments increased, some parents stepped forward to silence their children, and Jack’s voice cut in.

 

“I was thinking we’d get new roof shingles,” he said, mentally kicking himself immediately after. A small group of parents were talking to a man near the doorway, and Jack strained his eyes but failed to see.

 

“Like, the virus?”

 

“My grandmummy had that, I don’t want that.”

 

“No, roof shingles,” Jack murmured blindly almost to himself, squinting as more parents gathered round the small group.

 

“But brother Lyle! Mustn’t we get rid of the ugly glass window?”

 

“I think the window’s to stay, love,” Jack smiled delicately at a small boy before him, not feeling any means of offense. The clamor rose again and Jack turned on his heel, stepping aside to speak to one of the children’s mothers, a redheaded woman wielding a baby on her hip who stared blankly at the floor with his mouth gaping open. Jack dropped his palms to his knees and spoke to it softly to increase his ‘child-friendly’ demeanor, gaining a smile from the baby who was bounced on his mother’s hip gently. Jack attempted to block out the seemingly-interesting talk occurring by the door, occasionally stopping to ruffle a child’s hair and bend down to have a request whispered shyly into his ear, none logical enough to consider. He stuck to the roof shingles and shook his head at himself for even considering asking _children_ in the first place.

 

The speaking rose behind him as he nodded at the woman who stood in front of him, silently refusing eye contact and yammering about the arrangement of a baptism for her drooling son. This noise taunted the hairs on the back of his neck, which stood sharply, until he gave into the inviting glances that the woman would shoot over his shoulder.

 

“Not what I’d expect from you, Merridew.”

 

Jack turned and met a familiar face that broke he and Roger’s new ‘chapter’ into thousands of flaming fragments and suddenly he was back to stage one and screaming wildly in front of all of those who admired him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a humble servant, don’t look at me,  
> don’t look at me yet.
> 
> Cause I can be better, better than that.  
> I can be better.
> 
> In the morning I wake up, tears in my eyes
> 
> Every evening, I’m so blurry.


	4. And Then He Was

Children recoiled and were seized by their parents, throwing mutual glances of bewilderment to one another, dragged away from the scene and craning their necks to gain even the smallest bit of an understanding. Other youths clawed at their parents’ garments, some hurled over shoulders by adults that would quickly vacate the building without question. If there was one thing they’d witnessed in all of their years visiting the kirk that truly caused them discomfort, this was it. 

Jack stood keening, biting a curled knuckle of one hand and pulling at the skin of his cheeks with the other, coughing, drooling abruptly, a child standing face to face with a horrid demon of memory. This menacing man, this rangy, cloaked priest, white-collared and stern from the neck down, was hiccuping through sobs and swaying crazily on his feet. About half of the nave had fled, yet the other, reluctant and adamant on the receiving of identification, stood defensively in the shrinking crowd, twitching with discomfort. Some whispered, some clung frantically to one another, sets of beady, nosy and taunting eyes leaping from their brother to the mysterious man who stood unblinking, expressionless, right in the center.

Grey light slipped through Jack’s pride, his painted window, passaged into blossoms of glassy color, and set themselves upon the man’s face. Jack wanted to wipe these colors off because he thought that if anybody in the world, this man, invading his contentment and personal life, deserved to be dressed in them the least. He wanted to run, take Roger, run even farther. The hypothetical gestures of sympathy and apology that he’d sworn would occur if this situation had become true drained from his body and were replaced with rage and offense. Then this rage and offense burst into livid flames when the man’s lips creased into a gentle grin. Jack inhaled and released via a low, demented groan. 

 

“YOU!  _ YOU! _ Oh  _ God _ , why?” Jack’d never felt weaker in his life. He was crying again. “Get  _ out _ of here! What’d you-  _ oh _ , oh  _ god! _ ” He gritted his teeth through parted lips and shook madly with waves of grief. 

 

“I’d really like to speak with you, Jack, just us? I’m here to be nothing but civil,” the man said. 

 

“You’ve just— Ra—oh,  _ god! _ ” Jack couldn’t bring himself to say his name. 

 

Ralph’s smile flunked into a sympathetic frown.

 

“Hi.  _ Hey. _ Jack, please?”

 

Jack faltered, struggling to compose himself. He took a quivering breath and announced. 

 

“I’d appreciate some time alone with this one,” he croaked, sparking no response from the bearers of the taunting stares encircling him.

 

“I said I’d  _ appreciate _ some—  _ please!  _ I promise a full hearted explanation as soon as possible, but for now. Please, ladies and gentlemen— please.” Families withdrew slowly, and began, murmuring, out the door. 

 

Ralph was just as Jack’d remembered. Attenuated, nearing unnaturally broad shoulders, stunted hips and lean posture. What appeared odd was indubitably his neat appearance, with well kept hair and fair skin, skin that wasn’t burnt and tan and peeling. A curve of blue light illuminated the plane of his right cheek and flared into gold and green toward his neck. The blue flashed and slid when the taunting smile returned. He wore all black, save for a silver cross necklace over his jumper and a golden belt buckle. 

 

Jack wanted to slap him. When the kirk door boomed shut, his heart sank and he wiped excess tears from his hot cheeks. Jack looked toward the ceiling, sniffling hard, composed himself, spoke. 

 

“How’d you find me?”

 

“Hi, hi. I found your father, actually.” Ralph’s matured, delicate voice against the silence filled Jack’s chest with sorrow. 

 

“My father?” A nod. “How?”

 

“London, at my home, I-“

 

“You’re in London?”

 

“I am, with my wife.”

 

Jack blinked, and suddenly Ralph’s youth was apparent to an extreme degree. “Wife?”

 

“Yes,” Ralph laughed sweetly. “Leigh.”

 

“ _ Wife.  _ But… aren’t you-?”

 

“Nineteen, yes. And I know how it sounds.”

 

“So… Okay.” Jack rubbed his palms against his thighs and stared down towards the floor, letting the awkward tension grow. 

 

“My mother left,” Ralph began his explanation with no further cue, “when I was young, and… I met her about a month after our rescue, so. It’d been a while. Last year, when we got married, I mean. My father wanted me to be as close to her as I could, in case… yeah. And she was all for it, too, so… yeah.” Teeth concealed, Ralph bit his bottom lip and forced a smile. 

 

“Yeah, okay. So… Why are you here?” It came out harsh, but Jack didn’t care.

 

“I, uh. Hey, could we take this somewhere a little more..?”

 

“ _ No.  _ I mean—not right now. Listen, I… you’ve got a way around?”

 

“Cabs, thus far. They’ve been all right.” 

 

“Yeah, so. Not… not right now, but… take my address, I can talk tonight, but it’d better be good,  _ Ralph _ .” The name came out sour. 

 

Ralph changed the subject. “You still with anybody? From…”

 

Jack thought of Roger. “No. Tried not to be.”

 

“Yeah, me neither.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Illuminated specks of dust crossed Ralph’s front, and Jack bit his thumbnail. Mutually avoiding eye contact, both boys struggled to recollect the last exchange of words they’d had years prior, seasick, blinded by rage, thrashing, yelling. Jack’s nails had been bitten halfway toward his cuticle, and he’d been virtually slapping straws of red hair from his face, restrained by a Naval officer. 

Ralph thought they were all going to get arrested. Jack thought he had nothing to lose. Ralph had been crying, holding the hand of a sailor, subconsciously wiping his wet nose on the man’s cuffed sleeve, who neurotically obliged, sympathy keeping his arm stone-still. Jack had insides of elbows pulling him back from underneath his arms, yet he still kicked and screamed, wishing death upon Ralph and his entire family. His bare feet had been slipping uncontrollably in the slick mixture of dirt and clay and seawater that lubricated the boat’s floor, yet his kicks persisted, seeing as he wasn’t the one that had to hold himself up. 

The officer’s breath was hot in Jack’s ear, yelling something about  _ ‘cut it out’ _ this, and  _ ‘we’re losing him’ _ that. Jack was ashamed because then he’d started to cry. He hadn’t cried among the grieving screams that’d boomed from the group of painted children on the shore amongst the rolling of flames, but his sorrow eventually caught up with him. He wasn’t able to hear Ralph’s laments over his own pained, slurred shrieks-- and he didn’t care. After a firm bite at the officer’s wrist, Jack’d been involuntarily freed, leaping to Ralph, grabbing two fistfulls of dirty, blond hair and headbutting the screaming boy. Jack didn’t remember anything from that point on, not until he was in his father’s arms screaming until his voice gave out and he woke up in a bunker the next day.

Young Merridew had grasped his sleeping father’s hand, who was spooning him protectively, and closed his eyes in relief that he’d never have to see the fair boy ever again. 

Yet, here he was.

 

“…So, my address.”

 

“Oh, right. Of course, then.”

 

Jack removed a ballpoint pen from the podium as one last tear slipped.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack was sitting on his living room couch, turning a crumpled note over in his hand and sighing gently. 

 

_ You’re welcome. And no more punching holes in your walls, yes? _

_ Rog _

 

The air was tacky and heavy with fumes of paint. The sun had begun to set and Jack couldn’t keep from biting his nails, which sparked poor memories. Blinking tensely, he stood up and began to pace around his kitchen, which hadn’t been touched when it came to renovations.

He paused upon the sound of wheels rumbling up the driveway. Along with a sharp inhale, he slicked his hair back, fixed his posture, and nervously awaited the eerie resonance of shoes approaching on gravel. 

Ralph was alive. Ralph was well. Ralph was married. Ralph was _ there. _

Deafened by his thoughts, a swift knock at the door jolted Jack back into his sinister reality. He strode across the room to open it. 

Ralph grinned as soon as he heard the doorknob turn. 

 

“Hullo.”

 

“Just come in. Sit wherever.”

 

“Thanks. Gorgeous home, I envy you.” Jack tried not to roll his eyes. Ralph appeared the same as earlier, however had a thick leather coat draped upon his shoulders. This he pulled more securely around him as he laid a satchel down on a barstool beside him as he approached the counter. He slipped into the next stool, which faltered under his weight, catching him off guard. 

That, Jack knew, wouldn’t have surprised Roger. He then caught himself wishing very passionately that it’d been Roger sitting before him with a nervous smile upon his face, rather than Ralph.

 

“So?” Jack dwindled at his own harsh attitude, crossing the room to stand across the counter.

 

“I’m sorry… for just showing up like this. I just. I wasn’t sure if you’d try to avoid me if you knew I was coming.”

 

“Great, how considerate.”

 

Ralph frowned and stared at the countertop, a dusty shade of red rising in his ears. Jack studied the dramatically curved slope of his nose and the laughably miniscule length of his eyelashes. His face was just as lacking in shape as he’d remembered, a rounded, smooth chin with no other mounts or features among his cheeks. Jack thought of Roger and his sharp cheekbones. And his dimples.

 

“Listen,” Ralph began once more, hesitantly, “Although it’s probably pretty…  _ blatant _ , I’m here to talk about… it.”

 

“Why?  _ Why, _ Ralph? I’ve just begun to fully swallow the whole thing, why _ now _ ?”

 

“Just?  _ Just  _ begun? It’s been—“

 

“Seven years. But I wasn’t quite the pure and innocent alpha male, Ralph. It was different for me.”

 

Ralph was silent despite his parted lips. He blinked hard and his brows knitted into a confused grimace. “Are you trying to victimize yourself?”

 

“Fuck,  _ no _ ! Goddamn, just get on with it, then! Why do you want to talk about it? I’m all ears.”

 

Ralph shrank and folded his hands in his lap. “You’re…  _ really _ in front of me right now. Wow. Okay-“

 

“God, this is fucking mad— no. Go, talk.” Jack rubbed his eyes with his palms and groaned softly.

 

“Got a conch to pass?”

 

“Fuck’s sake,  _ talk _ .”

 

Ralph licked his lips and pursed them. “I’m writing a novel… Jack.”

 

Jack scoffed, bringing a bony hand to his ear and scratching behind it nervously. “Writing a _ book _ ? About the island?” He sneered. 

 

“Yes, about the-“

 

“God,  _ why _ ?” Jack was laughing. Ralph was intimidated, and raised his voice slightly, leaning in toward the taller man who practically stood over him.

 

“What, you want us to just keep quiet forever? Get it no recognition, after everything? It’s an important fuckin’ story! We’ve—“

 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. And- hold on. Have you gone to anybody else about this? Found anyone?”

 

“Maurice.”

 

“Fuck off, no.” Jack laid his hands on the countertop and leaned back, eyeing the blond boy suspiciously. 

 

“Yes,” Ralph nodded hastily, “in Leeds.”

 

“Got anyone on deck?” Jack’s pose softened and his expression relaxed, allowing Ralph to gain comfort.

 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Sam and Eric. I just— I’m trying to avoid Roger, is all. Can’t do that again.”

 

“Why?” This came out more defensive than Jack would have wanted.

 

“Just— listen for a second?” Ralph sighed, looking up at Jack almost sympathetically. “I want to put our story out there, Jack. I feel it’s time it gets heard. Maurice was all for it, too. He— was ecstatic!”

 

“Maurice was never bright,” Jack laughed mockingly, “And just because you wanna—”

 

“I want to talk to  _ you _ about it right now.” Jack silenced. Ralph continued, gently. “...I can’t remember everything, and with all of our minds put together…”

 

“How long’re you here for, then?” Ralph blinked upon another rude interruption.

 

“A month.”

 

“Month?”

 

“Jack, you were…  _ there.  _ You know? I feel like, out of anybody, you’re the most reliable when it comes to… remembering things. Things that happened to me, and all of us. You made yourself apparent.”

 

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. Ralph was absentmindedly bouncing his leg against the counter, letting low thumping sounds scatter across the now silent room. He rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. “Wish I never had.”

 

“It’s not about that, we was kids.”

 

“Aren’t you scared of me?”

 

Ralph showed his crooked teeth. “Pft, no.”

 

“Mad at me?”

 

“Absolutely fucking livid, but I can grow a pair and talk to you civil.”

 

“Fair.”

 

“Mm.”

 

Another silence bloomed. Jack ended it.

 

“And what if I don’t want to talk?”

 

“Then I’ll enjoy the rest of my time here alone and continue with my project without your help.”

 

Jack searched his mind for something smart to say, then settled. “Don’t you got a job to tend to? A month’s a long time-“

 

“No, I haven’t got a job. Leigh does.”

 

“So you’re a bottom feeder.”

 

“God, you really are no different.” Ralph broke eye contact and faced his knees toward the door. 

 

“But seriously, what’s up with that?”

 

“I don’t  _ know _ _!_ I never really… gained back the ability to endure larger groups. And in London… it’s damn hard to avoid. It was rough just getting myself here. I just want to be an author, but haven’t found anyone to take my ideas an’ make them big yet. Leigh knows I get anxious, so… for now, at least-- she works.”

 

“And you..?”

 

“Stay home. Think, write my shit.”

 

“No kids?”

 

“No, no kids. Not yet. But if we do— have any… I’ll be getting the job, obviously.”

 

Ralph’s statement made Jack frown. It’d taken Jack excessive amounts of willpower to even open his front door to allow Ralph into the house, and he wasn’t going to let himself break down now. The passage of time shaped up in his mind and hit him in a sort of way that made his chest sink and his eyes feel hot.

 

“What’s she do?”

 

“Tax Broker.” 

 

“Okay, fine.”

 

“Uh huh. And you! A priest?”

 

“My church was passed down by my grandfather.”

 

“Ah, okay. Makes sense, because you’re no holy spirit,” Ralph laughed while he spoke.

 

“Better than being unemployed.”

 

Ralph recoiled, eyes wide. “Woah, okay, fair. So, you religious?”

 

“Duh,” Jack glanced across the room at his pendant resting on his coffee table beside a pair of worn socks. He tensed, praying that Ralph wouldn’t follow his glance. 

Jack realized that it would’ve been sensible to at least breeze through his main rooms with a quick tidying-- but with Roger, his dad, and Jack’s one night stand victims having been his only house guests within the past two years, the idea hadn’t struck him. Despite Roger getting snippy with him about keeping clean the house he’d done more work on within a month that Jack himself had accomplished since he'd bought it-- Jack was still simply impaired when it came to picking up after himself. Being raised in a filthy home without a mother while he’d also been slightly spoiled, he was raised on the idea that-- as long as you could buy new things, it didn’t matter where the old ones went or what happened to them. Jack paused as he recognized that he applied this to people as well. He blushed guiltily, looking Ralph in the eye with more intensity than he meant to.

 

“Uh huh,” he was nodding. “Just wondering. Strictly?”

 

“Used to be.”

 

“Hm.”

 

A silence stretched out. Ralph spoke again.

 

“So you’ll help me, then?”

 

Jack shook his head confusedly. “What, you’re talkin’ right now?”

 

“In general, dunce.”

 

“Suppose I’ll think about it. But hey, I don’t want you puttin’ my name in that book-“

 

“Yeah, that, too!” Ralph leaned forward, a cocky grin spreading across his flat cheeks. “What’s up with that? ‘Lyle?’” 

 

“Changed my name.”

 

“Legally?”

 

“No, for fun,” Jack crossed his arms. “Yes, legally.”

 

“But how come? And why Lyle? That’s some old-man-ass name.”

 

“Do you know how hard it is to hear people still callin’ out  _ ’Jack, Jack!’ _ after everything that happened? Fucking nauseating.”

 

“Your  _ name  _ was what bothered you?” Ralph leaned back into his original posture, squinting questioningly. 

 

“Something about hearin’ it, course, and- hey, I’m not gonna sit here and beg you for sympathy.”

 

“Yeah, gotcha. But why Lyle?”

 

“My grandfather’s name.”

 

“Valid.”

 

“Thanks,” Jack spat sarcastically.

 

“So, that’s a yes?”

 

“Uh?”

 

“You’s gonna help?”

 

“Said I’d think about it.”

 

Ralph, slightly defeated, rubbed his eyes with the tips of his pinkies in one prolonged, heavy stroke. “So, you said you don’t know nothing ‘bout where anyone’s gone?”

 

Jack almost told about Roger, but caught himself. “Not a thing til’ now, and I was glad.”

 

“Still a cocky one.” Ralph dropped his hands and opened his bleary eyes toward his lap. 

 

“Not generally so much, just not too enthralled to be seeing you.”

 

“Are you _ that _ unrepentant?” Ralph cocked an inquiring brow. 

 

“No, actually, I never thought it’d even be  _ possible _ to regret something as much as I do what happened. And for you to just show up out of the blue— what, you wanted me to just adapt to seeing your face again?”

 

“Not at all, but I did expect you’d be less of a cunt about it.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint.” Jack crossed his arms once more, turning to his cabinet to get himself a drink. He didn’t offer one to Ralph. 

 

“…Lyle Merridew.” Jack could hear the smile in Ralph’s hushed voice. 

 

“Don’t wear it out too quick.”

 

“Lyle.” A silence. “ _ Jack. _ ”

 

The crashing of cabinet doors sent Ralph grabbing for his chest, as Jack spun on his heel and slammed two balled fists against the counter. Jack attempted to grin to mask his anger, though it just made him appear evil. The opaque look in his eyes had Ralph seeing paint on his cheeks and hair past his chin. Ralph saw overgrown bangs, chipped teeth, a tall silhouette spinning and chanting before a raging fire--

 

_ Pig’s head on a stick.  _

 

“You know, for someone coming all the way out here to call me a cunt, you sure are just as fuckin’ obnoxious as I remember you.”

 

Ralph gazed, mouth agape, at the embodiment of the hellish underside of his thoughts, at the reason the words  _ Post Traumatic Stress Disorder _ had been spoken to his sobbing mother years ago, and boldly decided to play along. “What else you remember about me?”

 

“Your stupid fucking headstand.”

 

“ _ Headstand _ _!_ ” Ralph stood, and Jack nearly flinched. “Fuck, fuck! I forgot about that shit, god!”

 

“You only did it at first, that’s why.” Jack relaxed. 

 

“Yes, _ yes _ , I did! No, what else?” Ralph frantically took hold of one of Jack’s wrists across the countertop. Jack tore it free. 

 

“I don’t know! The twister?”

 

“ _ Twister _ ?”

 

“You don’t remember jack shit for someone who wants to write a fuckin’ n-“

 

“Yes!” Ralph clapped, “the weird twisty log thing!”

 

“Congrats, you’ve got it.”

 

“And then? More, this is good- wait.” Ralph turned, greatly relieved by the drop of tension between the two, and began fumbling through the satchel he’d discarded beside him.

 

“You going to pay me for this shit?”

 

“Uh? What, you want money?” His eyes remained fixed on the inside of his bag as he flipped nimble fingers through a thick, dusty stack of papers and notebooks. 

 

“You haven’t even got a job.”

 

“Leigh’s gave me a loan. Talk, more. Everyone’s got a number if it comes down to it.”

 

“How would Leigh feel about you bribing me with her money?”

 

“Bribing? You asked.” Ralph glanced back up at Jack, blindly placing a leather bound journal on the countertop and laying a palm flat across the top, splaying out his fingers and tapping a tune against the cover. 

 

“And she’ll let you give it to me?”

 

“Well, how much you asking?”

 

“…None, fuck. What’s that about?” Jack nodded towards the book. 

 

“Look through. It’s all I’ve got remembered. Let me know if you think something’s off.” The fair boy pushed the book across the counter proudly. Jack aggressively swiped it from his grip, squinting angrily at the pages where words had been messily scrawled out.

 

“These’re just the basics, course you remember this.”

 

“Well Maurice was no help, all he wanted to talk about was you, and I remember shit about you.”

 

“Really?” Jack brushed off his ego boost. “Why haven’t you gotten it written, then?”

 

“In case it was wrong.” 

 

“What’d you remember?”

 

“That you were scary,” Ralph laughed lightly to his lap. 

 

“Uh huh..?”

 

“Your leaf masks, spears, clay addiction, shit like that.”

 

“Clay addiction?”

 

“Yuh-huh! You rubbed that shit  _ all _ over your face.” Ralph jabbed an accusing finger at Jack’s face, inches from his scrunched nose. Jack pushed his hand away and shrugged. 

 

“I did, okay? Doesn’t mean I had an ‘addiction.’”

 

“Looked that way. Hunting addiction, there. Sound more sensible?”

 

“We needed—“

 

“Do  _ not  _ say that shit again. I can still hear your pubescent voice yapping about it.”

 

A vast silence.

 

“I’ll help you. Ralph. But I don’t want my name in that book, and I don’t know if I’ll be that keen on staying in touch after you’ve gone.”

 

“And which of your names do you mean?”

 

“Either.”

 

“And you’d prefer to be called—?”

 

“I don’t quite care, anything else.”

 

“Arthur.”

 

“Uh, how come?”

 

“Sounds intense, as you were.”

 

“It does not.”

 

“You’ve got any suggestions, then?”

 

“Don’t you wanna talk of important stuff?”

 

“Yes, so stop changing the subject, please.”

 

“Course.”

 

“G’on, read it.”

 

“I did.”

 

“Not completely.”

 

“I remember all this shit.”

 

“So, add to it!”

 

“I just did.”

 

“ _ Jack!” _

 

“What?”

 

“More.”

 

“ _ More _ ,” he mocked.

 

Jack focused on Ralph’s book, gaining a judgmental grin from the smaller boy as he watched Jack guide his eyes across the words with his index finger. Ralph rested his chin upon his folded hands, fixing his vision on Jack’s face. He’d never seen anybody look so good with a hook nose. His hair had notably darkened since the island, and he kept it neat, clean around the edges and allowing his curls to grow longer on the top. His freckles looked too dense for his skin. His eyebrows were an unkept mess atop thick eyelashes which concealed squinting eyes. He didn’t mind that Ralph was seeing him with his nose unattractively wrinkled as he tried to make out smaller words and and his lack of attempt to keep his sweaty roots under control. His forehead glistened and his under eyes still had a look which screamed  _ worn out from crying _ . Although he smelled nice, he obviously hadn’t showered. Ralph lingered on his neck and reminisced on how  _ old _ Jack Merridew looked. 

 

“I can see why they all adore you at that church, you look very charming.” Jack hummed a distant response. “But looks can be deceiving, I suppose.”

 

“What’re you getting at?” Jack nicked without looking away from the book.

 

“I’m fuckin’ with you, don’t let it press your ego too much.”

 

“The birthmark kid.” Jack leaned back proudly, sighing. 

 

“I remember that,” Ralph murmured almost defensively. 

 

“You don’t have it-“

 

“I’m not including that.” 

 

Jack didn’t ask.

 

“You remember how… they went, yeah?”

 

“Mm.” A lengthy pause. “Didn’t feel a need to write that down. I’m not going to forget it.”

 

“I’m sorry. Ralph.”

 

“I’m sorry, too.”

 

“For…”

 

“Being a control freak from the very fuckin’ start.”

 

“Don’t apologize.”

 

Ralph wanted to cry, hit Jack, and hug him all at once. “I- I ain’t mad at you, Jack. I can’t be. It isn’t fair.”

 

“It’s fair. You should be.”

 

“I’m not. Honest, really can’t be mad.”

 

Jack looked up, leaning down and pressing shaky elbows against the countertop. His expression burned with sincerity and remorse. “Ralph, tell me.”

 

“Tell you what?”

 

He pressed his hot face into his palms, groaning lowly. “God, tell me how awful I was. Oh— I’ve  _ got _ to hear it.” Eye contact. “Ralph,  _ please _ . Nobody’s ever told me.”

 

“You were a  _ child _ , Jack. You were stuck—“

 

“Don’t lie to me, _ please! _ Please, please, tell me how bad I was. I can’t even fathom it, I have to hear you say it.”

 

“…Why?”

 

“I just have to, please.”

 

“Calm down, Jack, s’okay. You remember that I was a part of Simon’s… and it wasn’t even our fault with Piggy—“

 

“Yes, Ralph, it was mine. Oh, it was! It was all my idea, the rock, specs, everything, then I set the island on fire, I—“

 

“Jack,”

 

“Lord, I don’t know what I’d do if I was so blind to kill you, too, Ralph,”

 

“Jack,”

 

“Fuck, if I hadn’t been there, if I’d just died in that plane crash—“

 

“Jack, shut up. Calm down for a second— look at me.  _ Look. _ ”

 

Jack shook his head, clawing at his cheeks. “God, Ralph, I ruined your life, didn’t I ruin it?”

 

“Nope, didn’t let you. Don’t let yourself ruin your own.” Ralph extended a hand to place onto Jack’s shoulder comfortingly, but gained a response of Jack jolting away and pacing nervously across the room, mumbling almost to himself. 

 

“But it’s stained my brain in ways I could have never _ imagined _ —“

 

“And we grow,“ Ralph raised his voice, “You grow, I do, and we get through it. You’ll get through it. It takes time.”

 

“ _ Too much,”  _ Jack moaned.

 

“Jack,” Ralph sighed empathetically,  “if you’re not ready to talk…”

 

“I am. I think. I’m just…  _ guilty. _ ”

 

“I get it, I feel the same.”

 

“But they all loved you, Ralph, and you didn’t possess my toxicity, you had good intentions—“

 

“And then I went looney, as did you. It was torture, physically and psychologically. You’re beating yourself up far more than necessary.”

 

Another sigh. “Sorry, you’ve been here too shortly for me to have a breakdown already.”

 

“Oh, please.”

 

“It’s just a lot, but… Shit, I’m glad to see you, even if I am a cunt.” Smiles rose between the two, eyes damp, and Ralph laughed, a genuine laugh that made Jack’s stomach churn. 

 

“You are, but… I suppose I’m glad to see your ugly mug again, too.”

 

Jack smiled wider, shaking his head and striding back over to the counter, slapping one of the pages softly. “So, about the—“

 

“You… you’re not seeing anybody, yeah?”

 

“Tch— not exactly, no.” Jack smirked, biting his thumb and flipping pages. 

 

“Uh huh.” Ralph realized that he’d risen to his knees atop the stool. He slinked to his feet and walked casually toward the living room, admiring the lousy, cheap art on the walls in rusted frames. 

 

“How come?”

 

“Dunno. Being with all those boys for so long kinda… confused me, I guess? Don’t know, forget it.”

 

Jack paused, removing his slick thumb from his lips. “The island was what made me like boys, I think.”

 

“You’re..?” Ralph’s chin turned over his shoulder, and he parted his lips in confusion.

 

“I don’t give a shit what’s in anybody’s pants. I tend to get laid either way.”

 

“Filthy.” Ralph turned back toward the walls. 

 

“Guilty.”

 

“And way out here? There’s like, twelve people here.” Ralph zoned in on the lazy architecture of the trim where the walls met the floor. 

 

“And I have to avoid looking at ten out of twelve in public,” Jack bragged through laughter. 

 

“Damn, the priest?”

 

A shrug. “Only started playing the field a few months back.”

 

“You’ll catch something,” the smaller boy warned, shaking his head. 

 

“Nah.”

 

“Cockiness’ll bite you in the ass, Merridew.”

 

“Gets things in my ass.”

 

“ _ Na-sty _ .”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Ralph, hot in the cheeks, turned on his heel and faced Jack, tilting his head back and taking wide steps toward the redhead. He stepped around the counter, planting an elbow onto the marble and grinning up at him. “Can I kiss you?”

 

“Do— what?” Jack slammed the book shut without reason, gaping at Ralph, whose smile vanished gradually. 

 

“Just—“ Pale hands reached up to take hold of freckled shoulders.

 

“What’re you doing?” Jack stepped back wildly. 

 

“I—“

 

“Wait— woah,” Jack swung his arms in front of him as to clear the space around him, “so— _ that’s  _ why you’re here? You— you’re a manipulative little tramp!”

 

“I miss you,” Ralph pleaded. 

 

“Oh, you miss who you wanted me to be.”

 

“Jack, please—“ Ralph made a shaky attempt to take Jack’s hand. 

 

“The hell are you  _ doing _ ?”

 

Ralph shyly took his own head in his hands, blushing intensely, Jack’s judging gaze burning through him and crushing his heart.

 

_ Like fucking Stockholm Syndrome, _ he thought. 

 

“Jack, shit, I fucking- I fucking _ miss  _ you, but you’re the same. Same old Jack, you can change your name- but you’re just the-”

 

“Tramp,” he cackled.

 

“You think I’d go out of my way to come here and  _ lie _ , just to—“

 

“ _ Tramp! _ ”

 

“Fuck it, where’s your toilet? I’m calling a cab.”

 

“Round that corner.”

 

Ralph exhaled aggressively, snatching his phone from his bag and tearing past Jack, who grinned.

 

“And you know what? I am livid, fucking sadist.” The bathroom door shut loudly. 

 

* * *

 

It took Ralph several moments to compose himself enough to exit the bathroom, he spent minutes leaning against the door training his heartbeats to slow down. He considered staying in there until the cab arrived, but decided it’d be more mature to exit the room and attempt to apologize and clear the air, even if he didn’t mean it. He kicked himself for giving into his lust so early, as he’d been thinking constantly about the redhead since he was about fifteen, grotesque fantasies entering his dreams unscathed, repeating, having him punching his pillows when he woke up at least once a week. 

Ralph angrily tried to gain the courage to even take a breath loud enough to be audible from outside once he’d hung up the phone with the cab service, which had put him on hold for a quarter of an hour. He’d sat on the closed toilet, tapping his heel against the tile, face fiery with embarrassment and rage. Any sound or trace of Jack from the kitchen had ceased, and Ralph had began questioning whether or not he’d even show himself if he left the bathroom at this point. Sighing, Ralph turned the knob and swung the door open, mentally preparing to put up a phony front and apologize. 

 

And once he was around the corner again, hands were on his hips and Jack’s mouth was pressed mercilessly against his neck. 

 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Jack mouthed against his unbearably soft skin.

 

“Feels worth it now, though,” Ralph nearly moaned, mood polarizing, hands flying to play with Jack’s hair affectionately as he fell into a euphoric state of _ blindness. _

 

* * *

 

Jack was panting. His face was pressed hotly against Ralph's collarbone. 

“Ralph.”

 

“What.”

 

“Your wife.”

Ralph laughed distantly. “I love my wife. But, god,” he grunted, breathlessly, “is it weird how much I fuckin’ missed you?”

 

“Thought you were _ livid.” _

 

“Was—Maybe I am. But-  _ fuck _ . It’s just… just casual, yeah?”

 

“Course.”

 

“Shit.” Ralph’s phone was ringing. “Hello? Oh, yes, ‘course. One moment, my bad.” He pulled his jumper over his head, zipped his pants, then slipped from the countertop, still breathless. “I’m not finished here. I’ll be back tomorrow. When’re you working?”

 

“Don’t work Mondays.”

 

“Two.” Ralph took his satchel from the counter and was gone within seconds. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Covered by the blind belief  
> That fantasies of sinful screens  
> Bear the facts, assume the dye  
> End the vows no need to lie, enjoy  
> Take a ride, take a shot now  
> Cause nobody loves me, it's true  
> Not like you do
> 
> (Sorry this was so long, rushed, and dialogue heavy. But hey-- it's here... ;))


End file.
